


Teaching methods

by greenstone



Series: Spanking Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - School, Spanking, Student Sherlock, Teacher John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:30:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenstone/pseuds/greenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against everyone's advice (and his own better judgement), new teacher John Watson has developed a definite soft spot for his most troublesome pupil, Sherlock Holmes. But even he isn't immune to Sherlock's rudeness and eventually his temper erupts, in a rather unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teaching methods

When John had told people he was becoming a teacher, the first question most people asked was, "Oh, what age group?"

"Secondary school. GCSE and A-level."

"Oh god, rather you than me. Isn't it a bit intimidating, the thought of having to teach a bunch of kids who are barely younger than you are? I think I'd rather do it once I was older, had more authority."

John hadn't shared this apprehension. He had never lacked for authority, always had a kind of easy, quiet, fair-minded steadiness to him that won him respect, and a boldness and ability to make tough decisions which made him a natural leader. He might only be twenty-two, but he'd fitted a number of useful experiences into his time, not least his years in the army cadets, which had made him confident giving orders and keeping charge of boys barely younger - and in some cases in fact older - than himself. And once he had got his first job, any niggling doubts he might still have had on this front were given further reassurance - he was going to teach at a boys-only private school, and while he might not have said it aloud (he considered class resentment a bit pitiful in this day and age and had no wish to appear to have a chip on his shoulder), he didn't think presiding over a class of posh eighteen-year-olds from well-to-do families was going to cause him too much trouble.

All of this could well have turned out to be true, but John had not reckoned on Sherlock Holmes. Never in any of his visions of what teaching would be like had he imagined someone like Sherlock. Sherlock was a skinny sixteen-year-old, as tall as John and significantly cleverer. He sat at the back of John's classes, long legs outstretched, curly head turned away from the blackboard, paying no attention most of the time, doing - and, more irritatingly, saying - largely what he pleased. But when, just occasionally, his attention was engaged and he swivelled his gaze to meet John's, John looked into those scrutinising eyes and felt himself pinned to the spot, unable to resist the pull.

John heard about Sherlock almost as soon as he arrived at the school. Sherlock was the teachers' scourge, the curse of the staff room. Teachers delighted if they escaped getting him in their classes, and weary sympathy was extended to those less lucky. The general consensus was that Holmes was insolent, lazy, worryingly antisocial and, on occasion, thoroughly unbalanced. An insufferable smart aleck; a weird loner.

John therefore encountered Sherlock for the first time with a considerable weight of advance information, but found himself taken aback. Nothing that he'd heard from the other teachers had prepared him for this young man, with his cold, analytical gaze and his razor sharp intelligence. Somehow, nobody had mentioned the latter. When he commented on this later, in response to a meaningful question about how his first lesson with 7B had gone, the other teacher said, "Well, yes, of course he's a genius." But John had the impression that Sherlock's genius had long since stopped counting for much among the staff, for whom it was utterly overshadowed by his personality defects. John suspected it didn't help that they had all, at some point, been shown up by Sherlock. Embarrassment and hurt pride were hard to forgive, for all you tried to be professional. And many of these teachers had endured five long years of Sherlock now, and were well beyond the point of looking for the positive in his behaviour.

John felt differently. He couldn't refute the other teachers' complaints about him, and yet he felt an odd affinity for the boy. For John, the frustration and annoyance involved in dealing with Sherlock were balanced by admiration for Sherlock's extraordinary intelligence, sympathy for the apparent loneliness of his situation, and, well, the plain and simple fact that no matter how irrational it might be, he couldn't help but _like_ Sherlock. He was interesting. He could be wickedly funny. He generally didn't care what people thought of him (a characteristic that John was discovering could be immensely trying if you were in a position of responsibility over someone, but which he had always found himself drawn to in a person). He was unique.

Uniquely enraging.

The class gathered books and bags and made its noisy way out of John's classroom. Sherlock was last to leave. Did he know John was going to stop him? After weeks of trying to work out what was going on in Sherlock's brain, how much he saw, how much he knew (and mostly concluding the answer was 'everything'), John decided he didn't care any more. As Sherlock made to sweep past his desk to the door, John stepped in front of him. "One moment, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock stopped and said, with an air of irritable impatience, "What?"

Insolent little _sod_. John's hand clenched at his side and he had to make an effort to stay calm. A tiny smirk flickered across Sherlock's face.

"I won't tolerate this kind of behaviour, Holmes." John's voice was quiet and his tone steady, but his gaze fixed on Sherlock uncompromisingly.

"What kind of behaviour is that?" asked Sherlock, meeting John's brown eyes, hardened by anger, with his own dispassionate grey ones. As ever, John found being subjected to Sherlock's scrutinising stare difficult to withstand. It was both discomfiting and strangely flattering, having that concentrated focus turned on you. Not to mention that John found Sherlock's eyes, well, _attractive_...slanted and other-worldly, set in that thin, pale face that was all cheekbones and extraordinary, full red lips. Which, he realised, were smirking again. John felt his anger bubble up once more. He took a step towards Sherlock.

"You know perfectly well what I mean, Holmes. I won't stand for it. I can put up with you showing off, or inventing your own assignments because the ones I set are 'too dull' - or even with you not doing the work at all as long as you leave everyone else alone to get on with it. I get that you're bored and too smart for this class, and I'm sorry that I can't do more to help that. I really am. But for the time being, you are required to attend this class, and neither of us has any choice in the matter. And while you are in my class, you will treat me with respect. You will not undermine my authority in front of the other students. If I am wrong about something, you can put up your hand and politely offer a correction. What you can _not_ do is sit there at the back, shouting out 'wrong' after every second thing I say!"

John was trying hard to hold onto his temper, but was unable to stop the anger rising in his voice during this monologue. It didn't seem to have any effect on Sherlock, though.

"May not," he said, still meeting John's gaze coolly.

John blinked. "What?"

"What I _may_ not do," repeated Sherlock, looking away now and sounding bored. "Self-evidently I _can_ do it, because I did. The point you're trying to make is that I don't have _permission_ to do it."

John barely knew what to do, he was so indignant at the utter, shameless cheek of the boy. All these hours he had spent cultivating a relationship with Sherlock, trying to reach out to him, since nobody else was willing to do so, trying to support him where none of the other teachers had the patience or inclination any longer, and it had all got him nowhere. The maddening boy just didn't give a damn.

John knew, in some distant part of his brain, that he was being driven more by the sense of betrayal than by the crime itself, but his temper, slow to erupt but always fiery once it did, had got the better of him. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm, dragged him to the desk and pushed him face down onto it.

"You arrogant - little - idiot!" he shouted, punctuating each word with a hefty slap to Sherlock's behind. "How dare you stand there correcting my grammar when I'm - what did you say?" Sherlock had murmured something against the desktop.

"Vocabulary," repeated Sherlock, though this time he sounded a little bit as if he regretted it. "I was correcting your vocabulary, not your grammar."

John's mouth was open in astonishment.

"You may be a genius, Holmes, but you haven't yet figured out when to keep your mouth shut. Let's see if I can find at least one teaching method you might pay some attention to, shall we? I have a feeling you've had this coming a long, long time." As he spoke, he slapped Sherlock hard and fast. Sherlock wriggled. John lifted his left hand, which was pressing between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Stand up, Holmes, and take down your trousers," he ordered, voice hard.

Sherlock straightened and turned towards John. "You can't make me do that!" he said, showing alarm for the first time. "You're not allowed!"

"Do I look like I care?" snapped John. "Now take down your trousers, before I do it for you! And call me 'sir' when you're speaking to me."

Sherlock hesitated, but saw the look in John's eye and, reluctantly, undid his button and zip.

"Get a move on!" John barked.

"All _right_!" Sherlock snapped back, glowering as he pushed the trousers down his hips.

"All right _sir_ ," John corrected him, voice hard as nails. "Now bend over the desk again. Now!"

Sherlock shuffled to the desk, and bent rigidly over it, arms held stiffly by his sides. John stepped up next to him and, without hesitation, resumed slapping Sherlock's arse, now clad only in a pair of pale grey boxers.

Sherlock scowled at the blackboard as John dealt stinging smacks to his bottom and berated him for his poor behaviour. Sherlock had never been treated like this before, and was torn between hot, furious shame and a strange kind of excitement. People were mostly so dreadfully predictable, but he had not been expecting this from Mr Watson, and he always liked it when things took him by surprise. It made life more interesting.

Also, he was getting a little bit hard.

Behind him, John was still raging. "I've been trying to help you, Holmes, but it doesn't mean a thing to you, does it? You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself. You're just a selfish, obnoxious little smart arse. I don't know why I bother."

"Don't then!" replied Sherlock with vicious spirit. "I don't _need_ anyone's help. I can do fine by myself!"

"I have told you to call me 'sir'," John said, each word icily clear. "And if I have to tell you again, I am going to make you really regret it."

"I'd like to see you try," muttered Sherlock rebelliously.

Once again, John was momentarily lost for words. It was as if Sherlock just couldn't help himself.

John grabbed the waistband of Sherlock's boxers and yanked them down, dragging them and his trousers to his ankles. Then with one hand on Sherlock's arm and one between his thighs he half-lifted Sherlock further onto the desk, so that his arse was perched near the edge, and flipped up the tail of his shirt. He pinned Sherlock down with his left hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades while with his right hand he started spanking Sherlock's upturned bare bottom, dealing slaps to each cheek in turn. They rang out in the empty classroom.

Sherlock squirmed on the desktop, trying to move his arse out of reach of John's hand, but to no avail. He began to grunt and cry out "Ow! Ouch! Stop it!" His round buttocks, surprising plump for his skinny frame, were turning steadily pink under John's administrations.

"Stop it _sir_!" corrected John, spanking harder.

"OW! Okay! Sir!"

"And _no_ , I will not stop it! You are going to learn a lesson here today, Holmes, and I'm going to make sure it's one you don't forget."

The sting in Sherlock's arse built inexorably as John kept slapping him. Soon he was writhing around and kicking his legs hard. "It hurts! Sir. That's enough!"

"Thank you, Holmes, but I'll decide for myself when it's enough," answered John coldly, aiming smacks to the top of the back of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock bucked and cried out. John ignored him and carried on.

John thoroughly covered every bit of Sherlock's round bottom with slaps. Sherlock squirmed and moaned.

"You've got so much potential, you know, Holmes," John told him. "If you would just make an effort, you could be extraordinary." His voice sounded different now. Almost a little bit sad.

Tears were prickling in Sherlock's eyes at the burning in his arse. He had stopped wriggling around, and John had stopped pinning him down. "Sorry," he said, the shadow of a sob caught in his voice. "Sir."

With one final slap, John stopped. Sherlock lay across the desk, breathing hard. His white shirt was clinging to his sweaty skin, and his too-long dark curls were damp and messy. His beautiful round arse was a deep shade of pink all over, contrasting vividly with his pale skin.

"Okay then, Holmes, get up."

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, then pushed himself up from the desk and bent quickly to pull up his underwear and trousers, though not before John caught a glimpse of his cock springing up, erect, against his belly. Taken aback and embarrassed, John averted his gaze.

Sherlock winced as he tugged his trousers up over his stinging skin. He tucked his shirt into his trousers.

"Get out of here," said John, though without anger now. "You're late for lunch." Sherlock picked up his books and left.


End file.
